


You're the Spark (that sets my soul on fire)

by TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (except nobody dies and Allison probably doesn't go darkside), Alpha Derek Hale, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Consent Issues, Desperation, Everybody Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, Full Moon, Future Fic, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Sheriff Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, though not really, up to presumably season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving/pseuds/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving
Summary: There's a wolf in your bed"careful, it might bite"Your smile is wide as you answer"He'd better"





	You're the Spark (that sets my soul on fire)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hi0ctane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hi0ctane/gifts).



> This is made for the Sterek Exchange and is a gift for Hi0ctane. I hope you'll enjoy it even if I veered a bit from your original prompt.
> 
> As always beta'd by the ever lovely Senna, all remaining mistakes belong to me.
> 
> Comments, kudos and constructive critism welcome.

It had been a rough few years. The problem with biting high schoolers obviously being that at some point they stop being just that and might even aspire to become college students. Derek couldn’t begrudge them, had even met with a lawyer to set up scholarships for all of them – he figured there was no reason _money_ should keep any of them from achieving their dreams.  
     Seeing them go had been bittersweet and less than two hours after Jackson - who’d been surprisingly reluctant to go in the first place and as such had been the last to leave; as late as possible one might add - left, loneliness had crept inside Derek’s apartment.

But it had given him the time to sort out his own life. Reclaiming his family’s land from the county had felt bittersweet but having the burnt out husk of his childhood home torn down had almost sent him back into the well-known spiral of guilt and anger, only to be pulled from it by the Sheriff and Mrs. McCall of all people.

In the end Derek had decided not to rebuild on top of the old house but in a clearing half a mile away. In the months to follow it was as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders and breathing came a little easier.  
     With the new house under construction and the pack away, Derek decided to put his degree to use and managed to get hired as a substitute teacher at BHHS. The whole pack, especially Erica and Stiles, had teased him mercilessly; Derek hadn’t minded though, as he could hear the underlying fondness.

Having the pack home for good had settled something; not only did Derek breathe freer than he had for the years they’d been gone, but the land felt calmer, too. Not that things hadn’t quieted down quite a bit once they managed to get rid of the alpha pack and figured out how to appease the Nemeton – Derek didn’t like to dwell on it for too long, even if everybody had made it out of there alive and relatively unscathed it had still been a bit too close for comfort – but the occasional supernatural creature kept passing the borders of Beacon Hills while causing trouble that more than once ended in somebody getting hurt.

Now, though, the pack had been home for six months. All of them being productive members of society with jobs and homes and Derek couldn’t help but feeling close to bursting with pride when looking at them. And in all that time no supernatural crisis had occurred, heck, there hadn't been any _human_ crimes – substituting left plenty of time for him to act as an unofficial consultant for the sheriff’s department and kept him firmly in the loop - if one overlooked the speeding soccer moms and the drunk teenagers; but it was summer and in the grand scheme of things much preferable to the shit storm that had been the years after Laura's death.  
     It gave way to the renewal of the pack bonding nights where they would all pile together in Derek’s living room, every form of junk and snack food known to man within reach as they talked and laughed and sometimes even watched whatever movie had been put on.

So it was hardly a surprise when Derek, all relaxed and surrounded by pack, in the middle of a training session – just because Beacon Hills rarely saw any form of threats these days didn’t mean they shouldn’t be at least marginally prepared if something _did_ happen – with Erica trapped under his arm while Boyd and Jackson were trying to get her free stopped still when he heard laughter from the porch where the humans (and Scott) were taking a break. There was no telling how the scene was any different from the hundreds of other times he’d seen it but still he let go of Erica, managed to dodge Boyd and Jackson, failed to notice how Erica held them back as they tried to ambush him from behind before ending up in front of Stiles and blurting:

“Go out with me.”

In the shocked silence Derek’s brain had the time to catch up with the rest of him but before he could run off mortified Stiles turned towards him and with a beaming smile Derek was sure could put the sun to shame and simply said:

“Yes.”

By the time Derek went to bed that night his cheeks were hurting from how much he’d been smiling, and not even the merciless teasing from the rest of the pack had been able to ruin his mood, especially not when Stiles had plopped down on the armrest of Derek’s chair during the movie portion of the night.

~

It progressed slowly from there. They went out when their schedules matched if it wasn’t a pack night. Derek was invited to dinner with Stiles’ dad, and even if he and the Sheriff had somehow managed to form a friendship since the day Stiles had had to confess the existence of werewolves and his father had leveled him with a glare and pointedly placed a wolfsbane bullet on the table, his hands were still clammy with cold sweat and his stomach was still tied into a knot of fear that the Sheriff would disapprove.

Derek may or may not have also worried that the man was going to shoot him when he rang the doorbell, but it seemed like an insignificant worry once the thought of the older man’s disapproval had taken root. Besides, Derek figured that getting shot still held the better odds for a happy ending than being disapproved off; Stiles might never admit it, but he wouldn't keep dating someone his father didn't like.

As it turned out Derek hadn’t had to worry so much. Sure, there was the expected amount of threatening father, but what he would have never imagined was that once the Sheriff was done giving Derek his personal brand of the shovel talk, he’d turned in his chair and gave Stiles one even more graphic than the one Derek had been treated to. Derek was not ashamed to admit he’d been a little misty eyed realizing he was already a part of the Stilinski family, and the look of shock on Stiles’ face as he’d almost toppled over his chair in his haste to hug the Sheriff had startled a laugh from him that soon devolved into a laughing fit. The look of bewilderment of the Stilinskis’ faces had done nothing to calm him down, but soon the other two joined even if they weren’t sure what was so funny. All in all the night was a success and Derek hadn’t had to worry as much as he had.

* * *

Derek wakes feeling restless. He makes his usual breakfast – toast with honey, cup of coffee, glass of orange juice – and sits down with his newspaper and a pen for the cross words puzzle. The bread tastes like cardboard and both drinks are left untouched after the first sip was promptly spit out and there’s a fog inside his head making it impossible to focus on the clues and putting the letters in their right place.  
     With a sigh he puts down both paper and pen, strips out of his clothes and one smooth transformation later the giant wolf that lives beneath his skin is running through the preserve at full speed.

He runs for what feels like hours and yet it does nothing to settle the restlessness that he feels even more presently as a wolf than he did standing on human feet in his kitchen. However, it doesn’t make him stop but rather pick up the pace, pressuring the wolf to the limit of its ability without pushing it over the edge.

The buck is a surprise. Not its presence per se, but the fact that his jaws close around the animal’s throat, the blood coating his tongue as life’s leaving its eyes. With practiced movements he guts the buck before hoisting it onto his neck and running back to the house where he can wrap it in cloth to keep the flies from getting to the meat. He refuses to let his thoughts linger on _why_ he chose today of all days to hunt down a buck this size.

Despite the hours of running and hunting, despite the fatigue settling in his bones, there’s still the persistent restlessness thrumming under his skin, the empty feeling in his chest as if something’s missing.  
     Derek has known the pull of the full moon his entire life, was taught control on his mother’s knee before he could barely crawl and mastered it before his fourth birthday. And yet there’s an itch in his gums where his fangs tries to break through, a pressure at the tips of his fingers and toes as if his claws are less than a thought away, the wolf clawing at his mind demanding to be set free and he _can’t push it back_ can feel his humanity steadily slip away with the slow rise of the moon however unseen it still is on the backdrop of the bright blue sky.

However, if he can’t control it and he can’t rationalize with the wolf then he can out stubborn it; after all he’s been practicing that for almost as long as he’s been practicing control. He ignores the way his skin crawls and the slight tremors in his hands as he turns his back to where he’s hung the buck and makes his way to the bathroom.  
     Standing in the shower letting the steam of too warm water obscure his vision and the water cascading down his back making him feel lethargic; he’s barely aware of reaching for the shampoo, washing his hair, scrubbing his body clean of blood and sweat. Doesn’t realize taking himself in hand before his release spatters onto the tiles. He feels wrung out, his skin too tight and as if he’s burning up from the inside; he thinks he should know what this is but there’s no room for rational thoughts when there’s a tug to his gut insisting he needs to _move_ , needs to be somewhere that isn’t this fogged up room that smells faintly of mold, semen and soap.

One second Derek’s clawing through his shower curtain the next he’s half way through a window leading to an all too familiar room. The wolf’s quietly breathing, taking in the scents permeating the air, ears straining though for what he’s not sure (perhaps he’s afraid to admit he knows _exactly_ what the wolf hopes to hear), but Derek’s the only one here. A tiny voice miles upon miles away screaming at him to crawl back out the window and go home, find the wolfsbane infused chains he’s been contemplating getting rid of now that his betas don’t need them anymore on the full moon, and pray everything’s back to normal once the moon settles.

It would be the right thing to do, but the wolf whines and claws at him, refuses to leave and it’s winning the battle of will and with a blink of an eye Derek’s fast asleep on a bed that doesn’t yet smell like him.

~

He’s not sure what wakes him, if it’s some barely heard sound or the boiling blood coursing through his veins, making him burn with a need he can’t place, much less voice. There’s a moment of panic as he realizes his human skin has been replaced by black fur though he’s startled from his thoughts by the surprised yelp coming from the door.  
     It may be the wolf putting its front paws on the floor, all graceful lines and predatory encroaching as it slinks closer to the human standing there - mouth hanging open unattractively in his shock and socks soaking up the water spilling from the bottle fallen from a numb hand – but it’s the man who crowds against him, low growls and whines spilling from his lips, the wolf still at the forefront of his mind, claws dug in and refusing to let go and Derek too lost in _heat_ and _Stiles_ to fight it for the time being.

Meaningless sounds accompanied by the oily feel of worry and anxiety making the wolf back off a bit and forcing Derek to focus.

”…naked, Derek?”

He shrugs, the question irrelevant now that Stiles is here, only a thin barrier of cloth separating them; hands reaching for the hem of his shirt in an effort of getting to bare skin. Derek didn’t anticipate the firm grip on his wrists, halting his movements before making contact and he couldn’t stop the pitiful whine torn from his throat if he’d wanted to.  
     There’s a telltale reddish hue to the world, the slightly too cold feel where his eyebrows should’ve been combined with the scratch of the sideburns brings him a little closer, helps him push the wolf a little further back.

”Fuck...” There’s a breathless quality to Stiles’ voice that sparks something deep in Derek’s gut.

”That is so,” his voice dropping into a murmur even Derek wouldn’t have been able to hear had he been just a step further away, ” _hot_ ,” he ends with a groan.

Derek has already lost interest in what Stiles is saying, instead focusing on where Stiles’ thumbs are absentmindedly drawing senseless patterns on his skin. It feels so _good_ and all of Derek’s instincts are screaming at him, trying to kick him into motion; but there’s still the acrid notes of worry and the smells of strangers clinging to Stiles so Derek does the only thing he can think of to alleviate both, and practically face plants into Stiles’ neck.

~

Stiles _may_ be a little disappointed he hasn’t heard from Derek all day. Sure, he knows it’s the full moon and that his boyfriend – he can’t help giggling as he thinks the word, certain that even fifty years from now he’ll still not quite believe that he managed to land the Master of The Eyebrows of Doom; capital letters necessary, thank you very much – prefers to spend it in solitude because he worries about hurting somebody if he doesn’t.  
     Which in Stiles’ opinion is completely ridiculous all things considered. But every time he’s tried to protest it, Derek has clammed up and refused to speak to him for days; it had gotten better when they’d started dating though Stiles still hasn’t gotten a satisfying explanation as to why Derek insists on being alone on the full moons when it seems his betas crave company during them, but they reached the compromise of Derek texting him every once in awhile.

But today there hasn’t been anything, not a single vibration against his leg signaling an incoming text and Stiles is equal parts worried and irritated – irritation had won out when he’d called first Scott and then Erica to make sure there wasn’t anything to actually worry about – when he finally makes it home after what felt like an eternity but had only been six hours scanning dusty documents; he’s irritated as he opens the fridge and realizes he’s forgotten to go grocery shopping and the only thing in there is a bottle of water. The longer he’s left to stew in it the closer it gets to annoyance as he makes it up the stairs and pushes the door to his bedroom open.

He’s distantly aware his feet are cold and wet, but also too aware that 200 pounds of _wolf_ is making its way from his bed to where he’s standing. Stiles hasn’t been afraid of Derek since long before the entire pool incident but that doesn’t stop every warning (and threat) he’s ever heard from both hunters and Derek himself to play through his mind like a broken record. The sound of bones rearranging as the wolf practically melts away is enough to stop the panic before it settles and he breathes a little freer before registering the lack of eyebrows and the red glow in Derek’s eyes.

That’s when Stiles realizes Derek’s naked and, despite the strangeness of finding Derek in his bed in wolf-form when he’d specifically refused to be anywhere near Stiles on the full moon before, he takes a moment to enjoy it, letting his eyes roam the spectacular sight that is _naked Derek Hale_ only to be pulled from his reverence when clawed hands are reaching for his shirt.  
     Stiles has spent the last few months ever since Derek had first kissed him - timid and shy and Stiles had been forced to admit to himself how stupidly gone he was on the man – convincing Derek that not only is Stiles in it for the long haul but he wants every part of Derek, both the wolf and the man. He’s also all too keenly aware that Derek doesn’t quite believe him yet so it’s with that in mind, and not because he’s worried of suddenly having to try keeping his intestines in place, that he grips Derek’s wrists in a loose but firm hold. He sags in relief when it’s enough to stop Derek and he most definitely doesn’t yelp in surprise (again) when Derek’s face is suddenly nestled in the groove where neck meets shoulder, nor does he moan just a teeny tiny bit when there’s a wet tongue laving at the skin there. On the bright side it seems Derek’s too out of it to call him on that particular lie.

So they stand there, Derek seemingly content with licking at Stiles’ neck and sniffing behind his ears while Stiles is left to figure out what to do with his hands. It hits him then that Derek’s burning up, his skin radiating heat that makes Stiles wonder if he should check his hands for blisters.

”Derek,” it’s almost no more than a whisper, his voice wavering with worry. As there’s no reaction he tries again, “Derek!” he repeats, a sharpness to his tone that has the man pausing though he doesn’t raise his head.  
     Stiles’ mouth is open to repeat the name a third time when he realizes that something’s poking at him, something hard and long and _wet_ and everything connects faster than lightning, a passage he’d read in one of the books he’d pestered Deaton into letting him borrow.

He may not have an eidetic memory but the words on the page, yellow and porous with age as it had been, describing the possibly fatal outcome are etched into his brain. Placing a hand on Derek’s forehead he grimaces at the too hot and clammy feel of his skin, and with a silent apology he reaches out and wraps his hand around Derek’s dick.

Stiles’ grip is tentative at first, mapping out the feel of smooth skin beneath the palm of his hand; it’s steel wrapped in silk, burning like the sun and Stiles can feel it throb to the rhythm of his own heart. Or maybe it’s the rhythm of Derek’s, there’s no way to tell with only human senses, besides it doesn’t matter as he moves his hand the same way he would for himself.  
     Slowly up and down, a twist of his wrist when he gets to the weeping head, gathering the wetness and coating the rigid length on the down strokes. Damp breath against Stiles’ neck and Derek’s hips thrusting against him enough to guide him, the wolf’s ragged breath all the warning he gets before his hand is covered in Derek’s release.  
     Curiously he raises his hand, turning it to look at the mess before poking out his tongue licking it from his fingers. It’s overwhelmingly salty but the more he laps up the more he can taste something he can’t name but that he knows is uniquely _Derek_. Stiles is too preoccupied to notice when Derek turns his head, blazing red eyes locked on where his fingers disappear past his lips, a pleased rumble building in his chest when Stiles moans at the taste.

Stiles isn’t entirely sure when he’s closed his eyes but opening them he can’t suppress the shiver at the intense look in Derek’s eyes, even as he breathes in relief that the wolf seems to have been pushed further back than it was five minutes ago.

~

Derek’s world has narrowed down to this: Surrounded by Stiles and with flames billowing beneath his skin. It’s equal parts agony and bliss and Derek’s helpless but to press closer and closer still. Stiles’ hand around him is adding gasoline to the fire and a dousing of water; the closer he gets to the edge the more he can feel the wolf draw back though he knows it’s a brief respite. When his orgasm’s ripped from him it’s not with the swooping feel of the fall but more like the elated feel of flying, of running free during the winter under the swell of the full moon.

He’s panting against Stiles’ neck, breathing in the scent of him while willing his own heart to slow down where it feels as if it’s trying to beat out through his chest. He’s cold where Stiles’ hand is no longer holding him and when he opens his eyes to see why, the world’s no longer tinted in red - at least not until he sees Stiles licking his cum-coated fingers accompanied by a low moan that is equal parts need and lust that has Derek shuffling impossibly closer, watching him intently.

There’s a slight hitch to Stiles’ breath when he opens his eyes to Derek’s staring and something warm blooms in his scent that sparks a need to _mark_ , _claim_ , _fuck_ that’s more prominent than before. Derek settles with slotting his lips over Stiles’, swallows the gasp he can’t stop and _takes_.  
     Stiles tastes like stale coffee and the sandwich he had for lunch; like faded anger and simmering electricity. Derek’s tongue’s dancing across the roof of his mouth, the cave of his cheek, sweeping Stiles’ tongue and the backside of his teeth, desperate to taste every nuance of him and naming them before Stiles regains his senses and pushes Derek off of him.

Derek knows it’s only a matter of seconds before it happens when Stiles’ hands rise, but rather than taking a step back he puts his hands on Stiles’ hips desperate for a final touch. He’s not prepared for the human’s fingers tangling in his hair tugging at it impatiently to angle his face differently; and he’s definitely not prepared for the way Stiles moves against him, pushes him backwards without allowing any space between them, the way _Derek’s_ suddenly the one with his back against a wall and Stiles mapping the inside of his mouth just like he did seconds before.

It has the wolf yipping in delight and Derek loses what little ground he’d gained as his fangs drop. The groan it elicits from Stiles sends fire through his veins, heat pooling in his lower abdomen as the human curls his tongue around one of the sharp canines while moving backwards, grip still firm on Derek’s hair silently demanding he follows.  
     They land on the bed with an ‘ompf’ as the air is knocked from Stiles’ lungs – not that he seems to care as he’s still desperately kissing Derek even while struggling for breath.

There’s a part of Derek who wants to stop, to take a step backwards, to _breathe_. But there’s no stopping now with need practically consuming his entire being and he’s lost somewhere between the two even as he meets Stiles’ frantic mouth with his own.

If Derek didn’t know any better he’d say Stiles could read minds because suddenly he’s slowing down, his lips gentler against Derek’s, hands falling to his shoulders as a reassuring weight anchoring him in the moment rather than letting him tumble down the slope of his own insecurities that are pressing to the forefront of his mind.  
     Stiles looks at him, his face open and eyes filled with something Derek’s still too afraid to name so he chooses to focus instead on Stiles’ swollen lips, the reddened patches where Derek has rubbed his stubbled cheeks against him (Stiles will complain about the burn later, will threaten to take a razor to Derek’s face when the ‘wolf smirks at having marked him so thoroughly, but Derek can hear the skip in his heart beat, can smell the arousal on him and the wolf knows that he’s not the only one enjoying the beard burn on Stiles’ skin) and his scent which doesn’t have a single note of either fear or hesitation to it.

The moment of clarity his orgasm has afforded him is hastily dwindling as the fire courses through his blood with renewed hunger, the wolf too close for him to form words - though that may be a poor excuse, Derek has never been good with words in the first place even if he’s trying for Stiles’ sake - and all he can do is let out a pitiful whine hoping that’ll convey everything he’s trying to say.

“Anything.” Stiles’ voice is warm and sure, his heart steady and Derek has no idea what he’s done to deserve this but any objections he may have had are lost to the roar in his head (he’s not even sure if it’s the wolf or the fire) as claws slice through flannel and there’s an endless expanse of skin right at Derek’s hands.  
     He’s not as pale as he was at sixteen - no longer so painfully self-conscious he’s taken to shedding his layers when it gets too hot - and one day Derek’s going to take his time, is going to put his mouth and tongue and teeth to every inch of skin, is going to determine if Stiles has any moles adorning his torso and if he does, Derek’s going to kiss every one of them until the point where he knows there shape and placement better than he knows himself.

Pushing the thought aside for the time being, neither Derek nor the heat in his veins have the time for that kind of patience right now, Derek bends his head sealing his mouth over the beating pulse in Stiles neck and sucks. It’s not enough though and soon he moves on to a new stretch of skin, repeating the motion over and over and only when Stiles is insistently pushing at his shoulders does he lift his head and admire his work.  
     There’s a line of purple bruises from Stiles’ right ear and down his neck, past his collarbone (where Derek had dragged his fangs across the skin, raising it in tiny angry welts) and ending on the meaty part where neck and shoulder meets; it had taken more restraint than Derek had thought he’d had in him not to open his jaw and bite.

~

Stiles is quite possibly more turned on than he’s ever been before in his life, but he’s also spent years observing and cataloguing everything that is Derek Hale, so even if it wouldn’t be noticeable to the casual observer (and definitely not caught as he is in the middle of something akin to heat and running on instinct more than rational thought) Stiles knows the instant Derek tries to slow things down.

But as Stiles knows that this is more like a freight train run away than a new wolf reacting to the moon and the only thing to do is hang on and let it run out of steam by itself, he also knows that even if the end result is inevitable, he needs to at least try and appease some of Derek’s concerns.  
     It’s not that Stiles has any objections to the proceedings nor is he scared of Derek - hasn’t been since the incident with the jeep - but putting it into words feels like it’s too much too soon, even if it has taken them years to get here. With a deep breath to steel himself before laying himself bare he looks Derek straight in the eyes and utters a single word hoping the wolf will understand him.

The message must come across as Derek practically descends on his neck and Stiles knows there’ll be marks even before the wolf starts worrying at the skin. He spares a brief thought to the possibility of having to wear a scarf but the thought is soon lost in the haze of pleasure sparking from every point of contact between his body and Derek’s.

It might be forever and maybe it’s only seconds but the scrape of sharp teeth against his skin is a shock to his system, causing him to arch his body and his denim clad erection to brush against Derek’s. Even for a werewolf that’s an unusually fast refractory period and just like that Stiles notices the sweat beading on Derek’s forehead, his ragged breath and mindless thrusting of his pelvis.  
     Stretching to reach the nightstand proves to be a challenge with 200 pounds of muscle unwilling to dislodge but Stiles manages nevertheless, triumphantly returning with the lube he bought last week. Placing it next to him on the bed, he tries to get his hands between their bodies, only to be stopped at yet another ripping sound and Stiles silently mourns not only his favorite jeans but the Batman-boxers that had been a gift from Erica.

A look at Derek’s hands has Stiles popping the lid and pouring it into his own hand. A second look tells him there’s no more time for ‘slow’ or ‘teasing’ so he goes straight to two fingers, perfunctually scissoring them before adding the third, his other hand against Derek’s chest in a silent order of not moving closer the wolf staring enraptured at Stiles’ body trying to swallow itself. Once he deems himself ready, he pours another helping of lube into his hand, liberally coating Derek’s cock from tip to root before turning and getting on his hands and knees; the manoeuvre made easier by the fact that Derek seems to understand where they’re going.

It’s a lot of work, after all Stiles’ neck can only turn that far and the angle makes it difficult to see and Derek has regressed into a feral beta state where he’s apparently forgotten he’s in possession of opposable thumbs; meaning Stiles has to practically grab him by his dick and pull him closer in what he hopes is the right general direction. He’s in the middle of an impressive string of swear words when it’s suddenly just _there_ , a smear of precum on his skin and then this massive piece of flesh is inside him, gravity causing Derek to bottom out without giving him a chance to adjust. Stiles’ eyes are watering and he’s choking on air but the wolf behind him snaps his hips, gets the hang of the movements before Stiles can even think of voicing the need for a respite.

It starts slow, nothing more than the drag of living flesh inside him but soon Derek picks up the pace, pulling away before slamming right back in. When he manages to hit Stiles’ prostate it feels as if he lights up like a christmas tree, sounds spilling from his lips that may be words or may be nothing more than keening noises meant to spur the wolf on.  
     Derek, who up until now has been relatively quiet, is growling in response; the vibrations going from his chest through his cock into Stiles adding fireworks to the lights. The wolf is burning and Stiles is burning with him as he tries to match Derek’s movements, tries to push backwards and get him deeper. Blood’s rushing in his ears and there’s a tugging behind his belly button signalling his imminent release if he could just get the final push to tumble over the precipice. It comes in the unexpected form of something tugging at his rim causing Derek to slow down and Stiles groans as he realises that there’s an actual knot on his boyfriend’s dick. When it’s grown too large for Derek to pull out and he’s compelled to make small, abortive thrusts, a clawed hand wraps around Stiles’ neglected cock hanging hard and heavy between his splayed legs, and a few tugs later he’s clamping down on the knot while painting the sheets beneath him.

His release triggers Derek’s, an obscene amount of hot liquid filling him up, pressing against his insides as it keeps going; soon Stiles’ arms give out and he barely has the wherewithal to turn his head to avoid being smothered in the pillow. Derek’s hands have migrated to his hips and are the only thing preventing him from completely collapsing on the bed - and probably causing some serious damage considering the knot currently buried in his ass.

Stiles is drifting in and out of consciousness and still Derek’s cumming, the pressure on his prostate has his dick twitch with interest even if he’s just discharged 99 percent of his brain through his dick less than five minutes ago. But even though Stiles is still relatively young, his teenage years are well behind him and there’s no chance of him being up for round two any time soon, so he’s content to just lie there and bask in his afterglow; letting the smell of him and Derek (and sex) settle around him, relishing in the feel of skin against his own that with each spurt of cum seems to cool down a little more until it’s down on the usual still-slightly-warmer-than-human temperature.

And when at long last Derek has nothing left to give and carefully moves the two of them to lie down on the bed, Stiles’ back against his chest and Derek as the gentleman he is, is lying on the wet spot; Stiles can’t help the way his eyes close and he drifts off to sleep with the satisfied rumble echoing through him like a lullaby.

~

The wolf’s resting its head on its front paws, its eyes closed in quiet contentment; the fire under his skin is currently nothing but dying embers and Derek can’t decide if he should freak out or pull Stiles closer to him.  
     It’s the memory of the human’s voice and steady heart beat that settles him, lets him stroke his hands over every inch of skin he can reach. It always surprises him that Stiles, forever moving Stiles, doesn’t move a muscle when asleep, not that Derek’s going to complain as it gives him the opportunity to hide his face in his nape and be surrounded by nothing but Stiles as he, too, dozes off.

Derek wakes to the embers being coaxed back into flames, the air chill against his heated skin where he’s fallen from Stiles’ welcoming body. He’s hard again, but for now the need’s manageable and there’s something he’s been wanting to do ever since he heard Stiles mention it in passing one of the first times he came back from college.  
     He slinks down Stiles’ body, breath fanning across his back and when he sees a mole he stops briefly to press his lips against it. Soon he reaches the swell of his ass, a hand on each globe parting them gently giving him the unobstructed view of where he’s been. The skin gleams with the remnants of lube, the rim puffy and a little darker than Derek would have thought. He doesn’t think, just presses his face forward inhaling the smell of Stiles mixed with his own essence. It’s heady and Derek thinks that maybe this is what being drunk feels like.

Stiles grunts in his sleep spurring him into motion. Tentatively he sticks out his tongue and licks up the crack of Stiles’ ass. He doesn’t care much for the chemical taste of the lube but it’s soon overpowered by the human’s scent, each swipe of his tongue a fan to the flames that are soon a roaring inferno urging him to go on, go deeper.

He works methodically - has never done this and is still unsure what is right and what should feel good - starting from the sac and making his way upwards. By the time he reaches the small of Stiles’ back his mouth is dry and he pulls back to admire the sheen of saliva on his skin. Soon he dives back in, his tongue circling the rim and then taking the plunge past the muscle.  
     Derek is pleasantly surprised by the musky taste, the feel of Stiles pulsing around him as he licks at his walls. He can hear the change to his heartbeat, knows that he’s on the verge of waking up so he ups his game, points his tongue and starts thrusting. He’s rewarded with Stiles pushing up and back trying to impale himself on Derek’s tongue even if he’s barely conscious yet.

The noises coming from Stiles are gratifying; every moan, groan and mewl filed away for future reference. He wants to make Stiles cum like this, convinced that all it’ll take is a little more; the weeping head of Stiles’ cock red and angry looking, practically ready to bust and almost enough for him to ignore his own discomfort, the haze settling over his mind again, the pinch to his skin where he burns from the inside.

The moon stands high on the sky, the rays through the window blinding him and it’s been a losing battle even since before he got out of bed that very morning, though this time he manages to go slower. First just the crown of the head making it past the barrier, a fraction of a second before pressing further inside; he’s covered in sweat when he’s finally flush with Stiles ass but this time the feeling enough to grant him time to let Stiles adjust fully to his presence inside him.

Stiles’ voice is strangled when he tells Derek to move and the world is once again lost in the squelch where they’re connected and their labored breaths, interspersed with Stiles’ demands of _harder_ , _faster_ , _fuck me_ and Derek’s personal favorite: The drawn out moan that sounds like a cry when Stiles’ back arches and every muscle locks up as he once again spills onto the sheets, his hole squeezing tight around Derek’s cock; it’s instantaneous the way his knot forms and locks him inside Stiles as he erupts and his fangs break the skin on the part of Stiles’ shoulder that’s almost his neck.

This time his knot goes down faster and he’s barely fallen from Stiles’ body before the human’s facing him, no trace of fatigue on his face, his arms winding around Derek’s waist keeping him from escaping the bed. Amber eyes catch his, laying his soul bare and flayed open and Derek wants to cry.

There’s a hand on his cheek, a thumb stroking the skin under his eye and even if it’s the middle of the night it feels like the sun’s shining on him when Stiles smiles: Bright and happy a sentiment echoed in his scent as he leans closer and breathes:

“I know,” before he’s kissing Derek senseless.

**Author's Note:**

> You know you're reading werewolf-fic when biting is a declaration of love; I just couldn't help myself :)


End file.
